boy who destroyed the world
by The Lady Avaritia
Summary: My name is Genim "Stiles" Stilinski. I am going to die in seven days, fourteen hours, thirty six minutes and five seconds. four, three, two, one… Gerard killed Stiles, and now Stiles has roughly a week to fix everything in his life before he can really move on.


boy who destroyed the world

_My name is Genim "Stiles" Stilinski. I am going to die in seven days, fourteen hours, thirty six minutes and five seconds. (four, three, two, one…)_

In fact, I already died. But I get this time. To fix things. To talk to people. An extension.

Like Harris gives us – when you get the homework so wrong that he has no choice but to give you a zero, he sometimes allows extensions so you can fix your idiotic mistakes. So, in a way, you could say I screwed up the homework of life. And thus I get this extension.

_Nine hours, twenty four minutes ago and some seconds:_

Gerard Argent stared at his hands and down at the human boy. The blood that was pooling quickly beneath his head was thick, red and gushing, forming a small dark mirror of accusation. A look of perpetual surprise was etched on his angular features, as if he had never, to the last, expected that he would actually be killed, his eyes, almost as brightly golden as the hateful irises of a monstrous werewolf, were staring wide and blank at the ceiling.

Gerard was dimply aware that the she-wolf behind him was screeching, and yelling and howling like the animal she was, trashing wildly, and crying out "Stiles! Stiles! STILES!"

And all Gerard can really, consciously think is "It shouldn't have happened like this".

_Seven days to go:_

Well, screw the Alpha pack and the horse they rode here on. Or maybe motorcycles. That's hardcore right? Alphas are supposed to be hardcore, right? Stiles scowls at the sign graffitie-ed on the Hale house.

"Blue," he says finally. All eyes turn to him, because he is clearly the smartest, the guru, he is Yoda (Broda?) who has the answers to all their existential questions…

"What?" Scott finally asks.

"I think you should paint the door blue," Stiles says. He is looking directly at Derek.

"What?"

"You know, when you start reconstructing this place, and build new walls and furnish it and stuff, you should paint your front door blue and have a brass door handle and - … What, what is it? You don't like blue? I suppose black could work too, but only if the rest of the walls are stark white. Or maybe you could go with rot green – you know that super dark green color that kind of looks like the final stages of rigor mortem… like the eye-liner Lydia is wearing…" he trails off.

Everyone is staring at him like he's just grown a second head.

"What? What? Just because a bunch of homicidal alphas are here doesn't mean we should all just stop … living," he tries not to choke up too much, hopes that nobody caught it and continues quickly, "I mean, yeah, the whole brooding hermit hobo wolf from the woods is kinda cool, I guess, but Derek, you have a pack now, and most of them are runaways from home. Don't you think maybe providing them with an actual house might be a step towards better pack dynamics?"

"I veto the rot green for the door," Peter says, and Derek gives him a withering look, growling lightly. "Blue is absolutely fine too, if you'd rather…" the older werewolf trials off, hands in the air, taking a step back. There's something unreadable in his eyes, a spark of humor that he aims right at Stiles.

_Six Days to go:_

Erica and Boyd are holding up a bleeding Peter, whose black cashmere sweater is ripped in shreds, and the gash in his side gives a very clear glimpse of two of his pale ribs in between a bloody mass of meat. Stiles excuses himself to what must be the charred kitchen's remnants to "make tea" and spends forty minutes there holding Lydia's hair as she retches her healthy, but meager breakfast on the ground, and then follows suit, except there's no one to hold his hair, but that's okay because he doesn't need anyone to do it, he is okay…

He stumbles back into the living room, where Erica and Boyd are busy sniveling at Derek and Isaac is giving them a hard unforgiving look, but beneath that Stiles can see that he is also sad and betrayed, and happy as hell that they are back. Then there is also Allison, huddled in Scott's arms, and Jackson standing kind of awkward, and worst of all, _Chris Argent, oh, God, oh God, he's here to kill them all, he's snapped, gone off the bat because his sister, wife and father are all dead and he's here to kill them all, oh, God, why isn't anyone doing anything about it? _

_Except he's just kneeling awkwardly by the second hand couch where Peter is sprawled, and holding his hand and staring at him like a lost puppy who's just found his owner, and yeah, it's a weird and totally unattractive look on his face, and probably that's the reason Allison's buried her face in Scott's neck, or maybe, nope that moan definitely wasn't what it was, oh, god, is she biting Scott, seriously, just…. No._

He realizes, yet again, that everyone is staring at him, and it occurs to him that he's probably just spoken out loud, and for whatever reason everyone looks about ready to shoot him… with their teeth. So he does the only thing any sensible dead mortal would do in the given situation.

"Ooops?"

Yeah. That about covers it.

_Five days, fourteen hours too many minutes and not nearly enough seconds. _

So, like… Derek's crazy uncle and Chris Argent, Allison's crazy hunter dad (not as crazy as Gerard, because he at least didn't kill sixteen year old humans, and not, we're not breaching this territory), huh? A match made in fucking hell, that's what it was.

"I'm glad, kind of, you know?" Allison said at lunch in school. "I mean, I'm glad that he has someone. Now that mom's…" she chokes up, turns around and Scott puts his too-big arms awkwardly around her shoulders, and whispers whatever in her ear. Judging by Jackson's distasteful expression it's probably something really sweet too.

Scott exchanges a glance with Danny, because somehow they are the only humans on the table NOT in a romantic relationship with anyone (anything?) supernatural. Though if you really look at it, Scott and Stiles count as an ordinary middle-aged couple that married too young, and is currently undergoing their mid-life crisis, and planning a divorce. But Stiles totally doesn't want to divorce Scott. Honest.

Danny just shrugs, and turns his attention towards Isaac. Okay, maybe not now, but soon enough Stiles will be the only human not in a relationship with anything (anyone?) supernatural. Hopefully.

He doesn't have long. He has to start making arrangements, and time's running short. He has to make it all look right.

_Four days to go and seconds that don't matter:_

His dad looks damn near deliriously happy, and instead of going straight for the curly fries and liquor, he helps himself to the salad Stiles had just deposited on the kitchen.

"Son. We need to talk," Sheriff Stilinski says.

Stiles nods.

"Sure dad, go ahead, whaddaya want to talk about? I started watching this cool TV show online, maybe you'll like it, it's like… this… modern day version of Sherlock Holmes or whatever, it's unbelievable, and the main character is soo interesting and…"

"Stiles, you know I love you, right?"

"Yeah dad. And I love you too, why the sudden need for affirmation?"

"And you know I really loved your … your mother," his dad continues. Stiles stiffens at the mention of his mom.

"Yeah…" he says in a shaky whisper.

"But… I also need to … need to live my own life too. She wanted me too… and up until now, I guess… I guess I didn't listen to her. But…"

"Dad, if you want to go on dates, you don't need to ask my permission, you know that, right?"

"What?"

"Scott just texted me, he overheard you and his mom talking, and hey, I'm totally cool with that, you know? Mrs. McCall is cool. Like, really cool. So it's okay, really dad. I want you to be happy, and I'm sure she'll have an idea of what you should and shouldn't eat and won't spoil you too much."

His father looked about ready to cry, and Stiles turned around, and started chopping extra tomatoes, because he like tomatoes, tomatoes were cool, and he hated it when his dad was sad, and oh god, how sad would he be in less than ninety days, how, he had no idea, oh, god.

"I really love you, son."

Stiles yelped and dropped his tomatoes when he found his father's strong arms wrap around him, then turned around and buried his face in the faded green Sheriff jacket, inhaling the smell that was just his dad and feeling close to tears himself.

"I know dad. I know. I love you too."

He has one less thing to worry about, one less thing to try and arrange, because it fixed itself, like magic, and now there's one less person he needs to worry about being alone when Stiles is no longer to talk his ear off.

"Wait. Stiles. Did Scott tell you how he feels about this?"

"Uh… Sure… yeah. He's, uh, happy, I guess, and scares, cause, you know, you're the Sheriff, and you'll be dating his mom… yeah. But, you know what, you should probably talk to him yourself! Now, eat your vegetables, or you get no healthy grease-free chicken slices! Anyway, this show I was telling you about, Sherlock, yeah, the main characters are so obviously GAY for each other, it's so cool…"

_Three days and three hours_

He has to have a talk with Danny and Lydia. They are humans, and they need protection. Big time.

(like he had needed protection from Gerard)

He sat them down at lunch to talk to them about it. About Mountain Ash and special properties and things that you could find in the Bestiary, and Dr. Deaton, who was creepy in his all-knowing mysteriousness but overall and okay dude.

Then he skipped Harris' class and went to talk to Deaton, and good vet just looked at him kinda sadly, nodding, as if he knew that Stiles as already dead, had been dead for the last three days, was it three days already? And wouldn't be around much longer to mouth off and spread weird black powder around in protective circles and slam his car into dangerous creatures to save the day.

He said he'd do it, said if they were willing, he'd teach them, and Stiles nodded, and returned his smile and he imagined e felt like his mom must have felt when the doctor tried to smile reassuringly as he told her she has cancer.

His mom had had months. And Stiles had a little over two weeks. A little over two weeks to make sure everything was okay, everyone was okay, to leave no loose ends, to dig people out of their own graves, while his own had already been dug. But that was okay, he told himself. Totally fine. They were his friends, and they deserved as much.

It hit him, suddenly. It was nothing like is mom. He wasn't _dying. _He was _dead_. He had died on the floor of the Argent's basement when Gerard had slammed his head in the stairs, while Erica watched and screamed. He was three days dead. And all the things that were happening right now… they were not supposed to be happening. Because there was no Stiles to make them happen.

Holy crap! He was dead!

_Two days, fifteen hours and six minutes_

My name is Stiles Stilinski, I am dead, how do you do?

My name is Stiles Stilinski, I am dead, how do you do?

My name is Stiles Stilinski, I am dead, how do you do?

He was wasting time. He was wasting precious time. But he couldn't bring himself to get up an out of bed, not with the stupid words circulating in his mind. He was sixteen, for God's sake! It wasn't fair. It just… It wasn't okay?

He was a sixteen year old boy who'd just won his first ever lacrosse game, and then gotten killed by a grandpa!

That's not how it was supposed to happen. He should've gone out with the team and Lydia to celebrate, and she would've kissed him, and then he would've gone home to his dad and Scott's mom making conversation in the living room, while Scott was upstairs, trying to ignore them, wolfy hearing and all, and …

It takes him some time to realize that he is crying over just how fucking unfair this is. Not to him. Well, maybe to him. But also to his friends, all of them. They lose him. His death happens to them. And they will be sad. He hopes they are, selfishly, hopes that they will be sad when he is gone. Knows that they will be sad when he is gone.

_Two days exactly:_

Renovation on the Hale House have begun and should be done by the end of next month. Peter has moved in with Mr. Argent and Allison, so Allison has pretty much moved in with Scott for the time being, trying to get over the fact that her father is seeking comfort in the arms of the man who nearly killed them all. Yeah. It would be a bit too much for her, but it's temporary, thank god. The moving in, not the comfort seeking. Stiles imagine with Peter's werewolf abilities, there are some pretty creative ways to "seek comfort".

The Alpha pack has already made an offensive move, by taking Erica and Boyd. The Beacon Hills pack will respond to them. Lydia has already picked up a few minor spells, because apparently, it's just like Chemistry, except you have to think it. Danny knows his way around with Mountain Ash and the ways it can be used to keep specific things in and out.

_One Day and thirty six minutes_:

Derek almost died. Oh, god, oh god, the alpha pack almost killed Derek! Derek almost got killed! There was blood, and bones, and Derek's growls and screams of pain and wolfs bane and shrieking and then Mr. Argent going all –bang-bang-bang- and Allison getting in Legolas mode (or Katniss, yeah, more like Katniss. Not even gonna talk about Hawkeye), and Peter getting fully wolf-ed out alongside half the Betas, and then Danny and Lydia throwing these little… brown bags and yelling weird things in Latin or Persian or whatever, and then everyone rushed to Derek who was practically mauled, there was so much blood, oh, God, the blood!

But now Derek was sort-of okay, grumbling and complaining about Peter not letting him do anything, but since this time Mr. Sassy-face was backed up by, like, the whole pack, there was nothing he could except sit down and endure when they all brought him food and made him eat it to get better.

Stiles brought him food too – very rare pepper steak. Derek's eyes flashed crimson when he smelled the blood, and then flashed (very, very, like super briefly) gratitude, and Stiles slumped next to him on the coach in his apartment (cause apparently, he owned one of those and didn't spend all his time brooding around the forest eating raccoons, chipmunks and other small rodents, that was totally Stefan and Edward's thing, though), and watched him wolf down, pun intended, the meat and then lean back and give a small satisfied smirk.

"Thank you, Stiles."

"He never thanks me!" Erica complained from further within the apartment.

"Your cooking sucks," that was probably Boyd. And then the sounds of fighting. Derek chuckled, then shook his head and turned up the volume of the TV.


End file.
